Gods Until Dawn
by Telemachus Prime
Summary: Mike and Chris survived the events of Blackwood Pines, but return damaged, broken and polarized. One year later, they reunite in order to find peace and closure from that horrific tragedy up on the mountain. But sometimes the scars of the mind, and the heart, are the most difficult wounds to heal.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Body of work will contain strong language and (eventually) sexually graphic adult themes between characters (hint: MikexChris ship, choo-choo!) so reader discretion is advised. In addition, all characters and events from the video game Until Dawn, which are mentioned and/or represented in this work are property of Supermassive Games and Sony Entertainment, and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Further more, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, please don't sue me.**

* * *

Prologue

Mike Munroe was a failure. Last year he failed to save his friends during the terrible tragedy at Blackwood Pines. Each friend, each of their deaths, played in his mind on repeat – their horrible conclusions becoming the scaffold of his ignominy that proved the fault of his attributes. He wasn't intelligent or persuasive. And neither was he determined or brave, not any more.

And he toyed with the questions, the possibilities, each one cannibalizing his mind. What if he had said something different, done something different one year ago? Would Jessica still be alive? What about Sam? Ashley and Matt?

Would he mind seeing Emily again? A bitch, yes, but she owned it, and he wouldn't mind resurrecting a shared squabble from long ago.

And Josh… Broken as his friend was, Mike finally empathized with him through a shared sense of loss, albeit all too late.  
And what if he did something different for Hannah? And by proxy, Beth?

Then there was Chris who sat in the center of this maelstrom, as much a survivor as he was. After everything they went through together, what did Chris really think of Mike? Would he cast judgement on his distorted afterimage? Or would he nurture and protect what remained of Mike's vitreous existence that stood at the edge of the abyss?

What if? What if? On and on, forever and ever. All the combinations and possible choices and macabre thoughts that danced in his tumultuous head lead to the horrible truth of it all: Mike Munroe couldn't save anyone because he was a failure.

And so every morning, since that tragic dawn of last year, Mike ran. Geared up in his Nikes and a headband, blasting music through his Bluetooth earphones, he ran. It was a monotonous, mundane and predictable endeavor, but at least it was consistent. No choice had to be exercised, no possibilities had to be selected. It was just him running through the city streets, running away from the rising sun, from the terrible dawn. It was just the music and Mike Munroe.

 _O' Death, O' Death, O' Death,  
Won't you spare me over til' another year?_


	2. Mars and Venus

**Disclaimer: Body of work will contain strong language and (eventually) sexually graphic adult themes between characters (hint: MikexChris ship, choo-choo!) so reader discretion is advised. In addition, all characters and events from the video game Until Dawn, which are mentioned and/or represented in this work are property of Supermassive Games and Sony Entertainment, and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Further more, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, please don't sue me.  
**

* * *

Chapter 1

How long had Chris been standing at the front door of Mike's condo? His fist was suspended in place, becoming a disembodied statuesque limb just ready to knock. He was nervous, he was uncertain, he gulped. It had been, what, a year since they last saw one another? They literally hadn't talked since the horrible incident at Blackwood Pines. Like a real sit down, heart-to-heart, Dr. Phil style talk. Yeah, sure, the occasional text here or there was a modicum of communication and shit-talking. But their messages to one another were so detached, so impersonal, that they might as well had been talking towards brick walls with their names tagged in spray paint.

 _Mike: hey bud what up?  
Chris: Just chillin…  
Mike: cool cool  
_ (Or…)  
 _Mike: yo dawg, what's crackin'?  
Chris: Just chillin…  
Mike: cool cool  
(And then…)  
Mike: what up dude?  
Chris: Just chillin…  
Mike: cool cool_

Etcetera, etcetera.

Chris understood Mike needed somebody with him, somebody he could relate to, somebody he could connect to because he was hurting. But Chris just needed his space, needed the time to heal. He rubbed his forearm anxiously, thinking about that horrible night at the mountain. Those moments were still too fresh - full of raw emotions and pellucid memories. Sometimes they'd start as a whisper in his mind, then rise to a crescendo, screaming until it practically etherized him. He was afraid that seeing Mike again would only amplify the inferno that dared to immolate his existence.

"Breathe…" Chris instructed himself, letting out a heavy sigh to pacify the rising uproar of his thoughts. He gulped more air in then released a slow exhale. His mind retained a measure of tranquility, but he took a third breath anyway for good measure.

And yet, despite Chris' small episode, he was still there, standing in front of Mike's condominium. The door was just beckoning him to knock on it. Then he thought that maybe this reunion was a bad idea, that it was too soon, that the deluge of bad experiences would suffocate him. But his mind wandered back to the last text conversation he received from Mike.

 _Mike: I miss ya bro we should hang and catch up  
Chris: Ya, totally man!  
Mike: next week my pad, I'll supply the boobs ;)  
Mike: fuk autocorrect meant booze lol  
Chris: lol…Sure man, it's been awhile…  
(Chris had paused back then, debating whether to send the next text; but his fingers danced eagerly across the keypad and sent the message before he realized what he was doing.)  
Chris: I miss ya too bro…_

And just like the time with the last text message, his body moved unfettered from his conscious whims as he rapped on the door. Too late to turn back now, no matter how much his anxiety wanted him to.

Chris heard a bolt unlock from the door, then another. He must have heard about three more clicks after that before he heard a chain sliding.

 _'Seriously?'_ Chris thought, wondering if perhaps he was standing in front of an impregnable vault than a simple doorway.

Then the door finally swung open.

Mike stood at the entryway, his brown eyes locking onto Chris' blue ones. He wore only a towel wrapped around his waist, while the rest of his body was all exposed flesh. He had a firm grip on the fabric's hem, revealing tight arm muscles accompanied with an even tighter, toned upper body that came from frequent running. Trickles of water cascaded down his dark hair, through the contour of his neckline, between his pecs and hard abs, then merged with a small treasure trail that edged its way to hidden depths. He was slightly out of breath, obviously having jumped out of the shower in a mad rush to answer the door.

And Chris was staring way too long than what was socially acceptable. He was feeling a flush with embarrassment, while Mike stood half-naked and stolid.

All though if Mike appeared any more impassive, he would have looked rather offended to be bothered from his shower.

And so Chris broke the silence by waving a hand jovially and said, "'Eeeeeeyyy…"

A pregnant pause. Awkward.

Mike asked, "Can I…help you?"

Deadpan could not begin to describe Mike's expression. It was obvious that there was no recognition. After all, Chris hadn't exactly kept the same clean cut pretty boy face he had one year ago. Instead he grew out his facial hair, fostering what was an amalgamation of a golden lion's mane and a disheveled blond Brillo Pad. He still maintained a great sense of hairstyle nonetheless, with his slicked faux Mohawk updo – the only trademark feature of his that persisted.

Maybe Chris should have refined his appearance beforehand to mitigate the gauche nature of their meetup…

"Dude," Chris began, jabbing a finger to himself for emphasis, "it's me, Chris!"

He could see the information registering in Mike's face. Slowly at first, with eyes growing wider by the second, until you could practically distinguish his ocular features to that of a slow loris.

"Holy shit…Chris?" Mike replied, bewildered. "Christopher-fuckin-Benjamin!"

Mike immediately drew his friend into a tight embrace – the feeling familiar, inviting, but also fairly wet. Chris withdrew from Mike quickly after that realization.

"Sorry buddy, sorry!" Mike apologized as he patted Chris' long sleeve checkered flannel, as if his repentance could dry out the water that had soaked into the textile.

Chris chuckled, then joked, "Bro, I'm totes down to get wet and wild, but you gotta wine and dine me first."

Chris had always been the comedian and wise cracker of the group. The one who brightened the mood, the one who could make you smile. But really, it was Mike he looked up to – the class president, the prom king, the savvy Casanova – who had the propensity for humor, if not having more comedic bravado than he had.

Chris could just imagine the upcoming retort from Mike now in a histrionic voice: _"Oh mah gawd we're SO totally going to make out!"_  
But there was an idiosyncrasy in Mike's body language at that moment: reservation, hesitation, and uncertainty. Chris could see the gleam in his friend's eyes, reaching out from the depths, only to recede back into the plumes of darkness.

So Mike threw a playful jab to Chris' shoulder and returned a forced smile. "Heh, whatever hipster lumberjack…"

"Hashtag ouch!" Chris said sardonically, feigning pain by clutching his arm. "Seriously, didn't you read that Gawker article? It's Lumber-sexual thank-you-very-much!" He followed by pointing a slick air pistol and then firing away with a click of his cheeks.

Mike's countenance cracked a bit as he let out a genuine laugh. And for a moment, Chris felt at ease as he laughed along with his friend. Both had hoped at that moment it would be as easy as this moment to fall into an old way of life again when things were a lot simpler. A time when they smiled more, laughed more, lived more, and loved more. When things hadn't become a fucked up tragic play that would make _Hamlet_ look like _A Charlie Brown Christmas_.

Because he and Mike, along with the others, were quite a brilliant constellation of friends once. Then ten friends became eight, then eight became two. And now these two lone stars struggled to keep their shine in the void that dared to swallow them into oblivion – the darkness of memories past which haunted them to this day.

When their laughter waned, Mike stepped to the side and bowed, following with a grand gesture.

"Welcome to Chateau de Michelangelo my friend."

Chris couldn't miss an opportunity to take a quick quip as he stepped through the doorway. "With you in a towel, feels like I'm about to walk into a sex den."

"I can give that to you, if you want," Mike offered in a sultry tone as he wiggled his eyebrows.

But Chris paused in midstride and gulped. He gave a sideways, incredulous glance to his friend.

"W,what?" he stammered, adjusting his glasses and then gulped again. Did he think what he thought his friend was offering? "Mike, I'm—"

Michael chortled and brought a light jab to Chris' shoulder. There was that gleam in his eyes, finally reaching out.

"Gotcha! Jay-slash-kay dude!"

This was the old Mike that Chris wanted to see, even if it was for a moment; the light in his friend's eyes were starting to dim once more.

"Psh! You call that a jay-slash-kay moment?" scoffed Chris, and then began mimicking a croaking voice like that of Master Yoda from Star Wars, "In the ways of comedy, I have much to teach you!"

Mike smirked as he started to close the door. Then he said, "I've missed ya buddy."

"I missed you too," replied Chris as he patted his friend's shoulder.

* * *

 _Dr. Alan Hill stood at the window sill, with the rays of the rising dawn lancing through the opaque glass. He let out an ambivalent sigh, turning in place and shuffling over to the mantelpiece. On the marbled surface housed a bottle of Cognac with two wine glasses. He took one vessel and poured himself a serving that waft the air with a rich aroma of a finely aged and cultured libation. The doctor swirled the fluid around the basin of the glass while examining the painting of Sandro Botticelli's 'Mars and Venus'. It was of two Roman deities laying on their sides while satyrs gaily danced around them.  
_

 _He turned his head to the side and called behind him, "Would you care for a drink my friend?"  
_

 _Silence. The figure that sat on the chair a few paces across from the doctor did not respond, but instead reclined on the seat and propped both legs on the desk. A loud thud resonated when each black boot hit the oaken surface.  
_

 _"As you wish," the doctor replied, turning back to appreciate the painting above him.  
_

 _Dr. Alan took a deep whiff of the cognac, allowing the scent to fill his lungs. Then he took a quaff and let the drink sit on his tongue to appreciate the blended flavors of spice and rancio._ _And after he swallowed the Cognac, he let out a satisfactory exhale.  
_

 _"Sandro Botticelli's 'Mars and Venus'. The depiction of these two deities together typically represent peace. But the painting tells a much deeper tale beyond the obvious symbolism…" the doctor began to explain.  
_

 _Venus, being the goddess of love, had attracted the attention of many suitors, from mere mortals to the almighty pantheon themselves. However, she was wed to the blacksmith god, Vulcan, whom she drew no amorous feeling for. In actuality, Venus' heart yearned for Mars, who was her one true lover. The painting frames a scene of 'the morning after' if you will, with Venus expressing desire and longing while Mars slumbers away. Satyrs gleefully blow trumpets into his ear to awaken him, but he catnaps right on through. Well, Vulcan was no fool, he knew that Venus had been lecherous and dishonest, so he wanted revenge. One day, while Venus and Mars were together, Vulcan cast an invisible net around the lovers, and exposed them to the other gods.  
_

 _"I mention this," continued Dr. Alan Hill, "because I have a theory. A theory where Mike and Chris are Venus and Mars. And their story is the net that was cast, which exposes them to the gods - exposes them to us."  
_

 _The doctor turned on a heel and tilted his head to the side, grinning wide.  
_

 _"So here we are, at this moment, to witness and judge their actions as it unravels!"  
_

 _Dr. Alan let out a small, raspy laugh. Then he folded his hands behind him as he strode across the room, towards the window.  
He shrugged nonchalantly. "But that's just a crazy theory of mine. All though…I'm interested to know what you think my friend."  
_

 _Are you the witness or are you the judge?  
_

* * *

 **Author's Note: Thanks for reading! All comments, reviews and critiques are always welcome. :)**

 **Hotfix ver. 0.1: Corrected a MAJOR typo pointed out by novelpetals, where I inadvertently made Josh appear with a dialogue tag when it was supposed to be Eric's line. Whoops! #LiveAndLearn  
**


	3. Fates Gathering

**Disclaimer: Body of work will contain strong language and (eventually) sexually graphic adult themes between characters (hint: MikexChris ship, choo-choo!) so reader discretion is advised. In addition, all characters and events from the video game Until Dawn, which are mentioned and/or represented in this work are property of Supermassive Games and Sony Entertainment, and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Further more, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, please don't sue me.**

* * *

Chapter 2

A few minutes later, Mike emerged from his bedroom as if GQ magazine just performed an immaculate conception to produce this overt pageantry of a male specimen. Thanks to just a dollop of Crew gel product, his dark hair was molded and combed over to the side – well positioned and manicured, looking borderline plastic and manufactured. Additionally, Mike wore a crisp blue Ralph Lauren polo with a popped up collar and beige Calvin & Klein khakis rolled up at the ankles that just screamed douchebag. And it didn't help his aesthetic case any better that he wore a Fossil watch, which was clearly excessive and posh.

Meanwhile, Chris, who had been sitting on a sectional sofa waiting for Mike, looked askance towards his friend. The choice of wardrobe between these two men could not be any more contrast.

"Jesus…Mike 'Mr. Billboard' Munroe, are you going to a commercial shoot or are we just hanging out?" jeered Chris rhetorically with a smirk.

There was Mike, presenting himself as a casually sophisticated, if not a vainglorious mannequin ready to be displayed at a storefront. He was practically walking with at _least_ four different labels and accessories. And then there was Chris, bearing a striking resemblance to a lumberjack (or 'Lumber-sexual' as he aptly put it) that just happened to have hipster attributes – flowing gilded beard, red checkered flannel shirt, jeans with 'designer tears' and matching Converse sneakers. Give this kid an axe and he'd be ready to chop down some lumber, as long as you played a song by Owl City in tandem.

It was clear that they were both vogue victims of the 21st century. And they owned and related to their own cultural styles. Because even if their aesthetics were contrived, it was the only palpable construction of their present selves that they could build upon. Their identities from the past were so mired with pain, confusion and darkness that they themselves didn't know who they really were any more.

But at least Mike still had the gusto to return a favor in kind, because it was easy to emulate what he imagined the 'old Mike' - the idealized Mike he wanted to return to – would do in this situation. He jabbed a finger to his glasses-wearing hipster friend and retorted, "Hey, fuck you man!"

"Wow bro. SO come back. _Much_ hurt," Chris razzed, as he faux grimaced in pain and clutched his chest.

Mike held a fettered countenance before rolling his eyes. Chris, on the other hand, did his best to imitate a Doge face. If Doge happened to acquiesce hipster characteristics.

"Psh, whatever…" spat Mike, continuing the playful act, "you asshat!"

Ah, the alpha male swagger bullshit. Just two gorillas thumping their chests at one another to proclaim rank dominance when no females were around. In a time before the incident at Blackwood Pines, when Mike, Chris, Josh and Matt hung out exclusively without nary a girl in sight, there was so much posturing amongst the guys, so much shit talking between them, you could practically smell the post-adolescent testosterone. All snips, snails and puppy dogs' tails, right? And how easy it was for Mike and Chris to slip back to old habits from days gone past because of the familiarity that begets intimacy.

But really, at this present moment, the outward expressions and actions were but non-tangential refractions of their inner, polarized selves. Just two men dancing with one another between Thalia and Melpomene, and around the pink elephant in the room that was Blackwood Pines.

And so the dance continued.

"Care for some libations, lumberjack?" offered Mike as he strode over to the kitchen.

Chris gave it some thought, standing up from his seat to follow his friend, then answered with a shrug. He then replied, "Dunno, do you have something that doesn't come from an advertisement, Mr. Billboard?"

Mike opened a large kitchen cabinet, gave a dramatic hand gesture to his friend, and said, "You tell me, buddy."

There was a moment of monastic silence as Chris took the time to examine the shelves which housed a variety of colored fluids and the multiplicity of vessels in all manner of geometric shapes and sizes. Without any context, one would think that this was more of an alchemic laboratory to produce the Philosopher's Stone than top shelf alcohol. But there were brands that he knew were premium quality and didn't come cheap, at least according to the finely decorated labels anyway: Belvedere, Bombay Sapphire, Knob Creek, Crown Royal, Godiva Liqueur Chocolate, Patron…on and on. Liquor for days that would make Bacchus look like he was drinking Kool-Aid for breakfast.

"And this baby right here," Mike started to explain, straining to reach for a decanter containing rose-gold colored fluid, "is the Highland Park Single Malt Scotch – 30 year. Can you imagine this thing is older than us? And that it came with a hefty price tag?"

Chris raised an eyebrow and inquired, "How much?"

When Michael nonchalantly revealed the value, Christopher had practically face vaulted – eyes growing wide until the tables were turned, and he was the one that looked like a slow loris.

Mike tapped the glass and asked, "You want to try some?"

Christopher was definitely nonplussed, not only for the ample options of adult beverages, but for the chance to partake in a refreshment valued at nearly a grand. His mind was subdued to a stupor.

"Got a Miller Light instead…?" Chris replied anxiously.

The expression on Mike's face could not be any more aghast. It was as if he was at an EDM party and the DJ didn't properly play a beat drop at the right time, and instead transitioned into Yo-Yo Ma's cello interpretation of a Carley Rae Jepsen song.

Mike placed the liquor on the counter then crossed his arms, scolding, "I offer you the _world_ of alcohol at your fingertips, and you want the equivalent of piss water?"

"Heh, yeah?" Chris shrugged, grinning nervously.

Michael sighed as he opened another cabinet and pulled two glass tumblers. After that, he walked over to the refrigerator to draw some ice cubes from the dispenser, which ceremoniously clinked into the glasses. He walked back to the counter and picked up the scotch to fill each of the tumblers right to the brim. Then Mike presented the scotch to his friend, insistent that he partake of the 30-year-old liquid ambrosia. Chris, not wanting to upset his gracious host, accepted the offer, albeit apprehensive.

Why? It wasn't because of this drink that was from another dimension of novelty and luxury, a venerable substance that he'd never dreamed of ever imbibing in his lifetime. It was because of Mike – the swagger, the confidence, the earnest and forward nature of his being – he was different. More alluring, more intoxicating, but contrived, elaborate and ostentatious. Just like the shelves of affluent alcohol that sat on the shelves; just like the scotch he gripped in his hand.

Chris needed to squelch his consternation. So he took a deep breath and downed the beverage quickly and in its entirety before Mike could stop him. The liquid tasted of deep heather and spice, tasted of Scotland's northern highlands, flowing down his gullet in a rushing torrent until the alcohol burn kicked in and punched his senses into reality. It was the difference between a soothing, orchestral set of Scottish bag pipes and savage, blaring Braveheart barbarians rushing down a hill for an assault. Because this wasn't a typical drink you just chug down in one go like cheap booze from a convenience store. It was something to be savored and appreciated slowly. And the scotch reminded Chris of this fact by enacting divine retribution like any potent alcoholic beverage would in these circumstances.

The burning and tightness exacerbated his throat, which forced Chris to shudder a hoarse cough, dribbling scotch out of his mouth and onto his beard. Chris placed his drink down as another cough rattled his insides, having to grip the edge of the counter to steady himself.

"Damn Chris..." Mike consoled his friend by gently patting his back. "You're not supposed to down it like that…"

It took a few moments for Chris' coughing fit to subside, then reorient himself back to reality. Mike took a hand towel that hung from the handle of a nearby stove and offered it to his ailing friend. Michael looked rather concerned and fairly worried as Chris took the cloth and wiped his maw

"You okay?" Mike asked.

Chris gave a weary nod as he rubbed the towel on his hands.

"How does it feel to cough up a drink worth hundreds of dollars?" berated Mike, wearing a Cheshire grin.

"L-like…" Chris paused for a moment to steady his breath, and continued, "like a m-million bucks…"

Mike, imitating his friend from earlier, jeered, "Wow bro...VERY wisdom. _Such_ clever."

Chris held up a finger as a universal gesture to wait since he was still recovering from the aftershocks. He cleared his throat twice, then let out a heavy sigh to ease his airway before replying: "Sorry, I couldn't hear you…let me adjust my glasses."

Chris used his middle finger to push his spectacles up the ridge of his nose. In response, Mike delivered a light jab to his friend's shoulder.

"All right, how about something lighter," suggested Mike as he pulled a tall cocktail mixer from the cabinet, "and something a lot cheaper."

"What'd you have in mind?" queried Chris as he raised an eyebrow.

Christopher watched his friend pull a bottle of Old Tom Gin and sugar syrup from the liquor shelf, as well as lemon juice from the fridge.

"Tom Collins," replied Mike as he poured the fluids together into the mixer. Then he continued to speak in a hoity-toity, New York cosmopolitan accent: "It's the drink of millionaires!"

Michael covered the mixer with a cap and shook the ingredients together. Afterwards, he drew a couple of tall glasses from the cabinet and proceeded to pour the mixed drink into the receptacles two-thirds of the way. Mike topped off the concoctions with soda water, some ice and a garnish of finely sliced lemons curled around the rim of the drinking glasses.

He handed a serving of Tom Collins to Chris and explained, "This should definitely come down smoother than the last drink."

Chris accepted the offer and stared at his beverage with trepidation. But Mike tried to alleviate his friend's tension by clinking their glasses together, than raising his own in the air.

"Cheers bud," Mike said, flashing a smile.

Christopher knew Mike to be the amicable one, the one who could ameliorate the intensity of any situation, the mediator and the leader.

No, that was a lie.

Chris only saw what he wanted to see. He only wanted to see the good in his friend, and himself, because the lie was more acceptable than the truth. How easily cowed he was to accept the façade so readily. The past he wanted to bury deep in his mind encroached to the surface of his memories, becoming the assailant of his consciousness.

Chris recalled that grim moment at Blackwood Pines when they all gathered in the safe room.

 _This. Is. The safe room, Em!  
Please, no! Don't do this!_

Oh, but how Chris could be the victim of his unconsciousness. He was just as guilty as Mike was, being complicit to the undoing of Emily. He remembered that night all too well - how Mike was divided, pulled in different directions. Between Sam's belligerence Ashley's hysteria, and Emily's contention, it was Chris that Mike looked to as the arbitrator. Brown eyes meeting to blue - staring, watching, seeking guidance, longing.

 _I've seen what those fuckers can do. I don't want to see it again._

That night, Chris knew that his words manifested their destinies to the worst possible outcome – what he thought had less gravitas was actually more analog to the weight of the world on his back. He might as well had been the one pulling the trigger at that moment instead of Mike.

Was Chris aware of just how dishonest to himself he was being right now? How the interplay between mind and body could be so mistranslated that they could function as two separate entities? Because Chris was so entrenched in his thoughts and self-effacing guilt that Mike was still waiting for his friend to return the toast in full. No _'cheers'_ or _'bottoms up'_ or a _'fuck yeah bro'_ was reciprocated.

Instead, the expression on Chris' face was that of disapprobation. Of blue eyes meeting brown – staring, watching, seeking persecution, condemning. Wasn't this the answer that Mike was looking for? Why he reached out to Chris and invited him over? So Mike could understand what his friend really thought of him?

Mike could do nothing but plead in his own thoughts: ' _Please, no…don't do this Chris…'_

But this was only the start of their unraveling.

* * *

 _Dr. Allan Hill beamed with pride as he examined the oil painting atop the mantelpiece. This time the painting was of three women in a state of half-undress as they weaved together a huge swath of illuminated, permeable fabric that danced around their bodies and their celestial landscape. The painting was called 'The Fates Gathering in the Stars'._

 _"Ah, Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos – also known as the Sisters of Fate in Greek mythology who work on the thread of life. One spins, one fixes and the other cuts," explained the doctor as he walked over to his desk and sat on the chair across from the figure with black boots._

 _"The Greeks believed that their destinies were deterministic. That no matter how hard they struggled, how much they yearned, how many decisions they made, their lives were immutable since they day they were born. That their choices never mattered._

 _"Could not the same be said for Mike and Chris?"_

 _The figure in black boots from across Dr. Allan Hill replied with a rebellious nature – arms crossed and feet planted firm on the floor.  
"Ah, of course, your body language tells me otherwise," observed the doctor with a solemn nod._

 _He proceeded to open a desk drawer and pull out a length of yarn. He began to weave the string around his fingers in intricate movements until he created a crisscrossing pattern._

 _"Ever heard of the game Cat's Cradle?" asked the doctor as he presented the crosshatched shape to the figure across the table.  
Cat's Cradle is all about pinching, manipulating and tightening the threads between two people to create a new shape or variation of the string. The Cat's Cradle figure in my hand can turn to a shape called Diamonds, which leads to Candles, and then to Manger, and so on and so forth. Sometimes a string figure can have multiple choices leading into other figures._

 _Now imagine that each change of the string is the outcome of a choice – a new path, a new destiny. You would expect the game to continue indefinitely, right? Figures upon figures, on and on into oblivion! Because unfortunately for Cat's Cradle, there are choices that lead to what are called dead-end figures: shapes that can't be turned into any other shape._

 _And yet, haven't you noticed anything peculiar during the explanation, my friend?_

 _"I still hold the shape of the Cat's Cradle," answered Dr. Alan Hill as he presented the interwoven string between his fingers. "And, until the next figure is created, all variations of the string from beyond this point are all possible and impossible. This game begins in a quantum state of becoming and unbecoming. In that regard, destiny becomes mutable – your choices matter._

 _"Could not the same be said for Mike and Chris?"_

 _Dr. Alan Hill collapsed his fingers as the string unwound from his grip and fell on the table as a single line snaking its path across the oaken surface. With a maniacal grin, he walked over to the window with his hands clasped behind his back and looked out at the waning light._

 _The doctor uttered, "Choices, quantum theory, and unraveling strings. Now I hope you've thought carefully about my previous question to you my friend, because I have another one I want you to consider."_

 _Do you think your choices matter?  
_

* * *

 **Author's Note: Thanks for reading! All comments, reviews and critiques are always welcome. It motivates me to write when I hear from you folks. :)  
**


	4. Between Thalia and Melpomene

**Disclaimer: Body of work will contain strong language and (eventually) sexually graphic adult themes between characters (hint: MikexChris ship, choo-choo!) so reader discretion is advised. In addition, all characters and events from the video game Until Dawn, which are mentioned and/or represented in this work are property of Supermassive Games and Sony Entertainment, and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Further more, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, please don't sue me.**

* * *

Chapter 3

"Is there life on Mars?" asked Mike as he snapped his fingers just inches away from his friend's dark rimmed glasses.

Chris blinked twice before his catatonic revere was broken. He asked, "W-what? Mars?"

"Yeah man, I'm asking because..." Mike began to explain, poking his friend's chest, "…you were totally spaced out there for a moment."

Chris blinked again. "I was?"

Mike scoffed, "Sh'yeah you were. And do you need eye drops for your blinking problem?"

His friend shook his head and replied in a monotone voice, "Nah man, I'm good. Cheers."

Chris clinked his glass against Mike's and took a sip to avoid further conversation on the topic.

Mike was a bit puzzled at the irregular behavior of Chris, knowing that he completely missed an opportunity for a retort. He noticed how Christopher was avoiding eye contact entirely, like it was a gesture of irresolution. Mike wanted to investigate further, see what was going on in Chris' mind, to navigate through that Cretan labyrinth. But fear overtook him – he didn't want to know the possible truth that he could be judged, condemned and rejected for his failures at Blackwood Pines. He couldn't bear to see Chris revile him, not now. Not when there was an opportunity to find solace and redemption. And he needed that, he needed Chris. So he went along with the social mores.

"How's your drink?" asked Mike, trying to lighten the mood.

"Good," replied Chris and nodded, taking another sip. "It's like an adult 7-Up with a kick."

"It _is_ the drink of millionaires, after all," Mike replied, leaning against the counter as he drank his own beverage.

Suddenly, Chris' stomach delivered and audible grumble that made him feel sheepish; his cheeks grew flush with crimson and heat. How long had it been since he last ate? As the idiom goes: _man could not live on bread alone_ …and the same could be said for alcohol as well. Though some would debate the latter. However, in Christopher's case, he could go for a bite right about now.

"And here I thought hipsters synthesized obscure music and plaid for nourishment," chortled Michael as he clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Anyway, what do you want, champ? I can make you a sandwich."

Would it be so surprising that Chris had a witty retort on the ready?

Answer: of course not.

Chris replied, "Do you have something else that's vegan, gluten free, soy free, antibiotics free, raw, non GMO, organic, fat free and low on carbs?"

Mike glowered as his eyes turned into narrow slits while he pursed his lips. He pushed a button on the fridge to dispense a couple of ice cubes onto his hand. Then he bowed at the waist and made a dramatic offering to his friend.

"Your majesty's _frozen water chips…"_

"Thank you good sir," said Chris as he took the ice cubes and plopped them into his drink. Then he waved his friend off, saying in a haughty tone, "You may make me a sandwich now."

With the few drops that formed on Mike's hand from holding onto the ice earlier, he flicked the dew towards his friend's face. Chris sputtered and tried to swat Michael's hand away while they both laughed. When the tomfoolery subsided, Mike went to the fridge to work on the sandwich. Meanwhile, Chris took another sip of his drink to abate his growing hunger as he scanned the condominium and observed the resplendent interior aesthetics.

"Speaking of _millionaires_ …" began Christopher as he gestured broadly, "…how'd you afford all this schwag? I mean, did Xzibit pimp your crib instead of your ride?"

The furnishings that Chris referred to were nothing more than an organized geometry of squares within cubes. The fireplace, sectional sofas, ottomans, armoires, side tables and lighting all took advantage of the harmony between fabric, glass and metal with the marriage of black, white and grey colors. The interior design of the condo was as contemporary as Mike's own style of dress - substantially affluent and excessively snooty, which just screamed ' _top 1%_ '.

As he continued making Chris' meal, Mike shook his head and apathetically answered, "I wish it was Xzibit, but no. It's from the Mr. Washington 'Shut-up' Fund."

Chris knew what Mike was talking about all too well. After the events of Blackwood Pines, and the thorough police investigation, Josh's father approached the both of them with a Faustian offer they couldn't refuse. Or rather, they had no choice BUT to accept the offer. Simply put – they were blackmailed to sign a confidentiality agreement, which was attached to a sizeable contribution for their pain and suffering experienced. The stipulation: as long as they never spoke about any of the events that occurred on that mountain they wouldn't be ravaged by an army of lawyers from the 8th circle of hell.

And thanks to the smash hit of Mr. Washington's legacy film _Blood Monastery_ , and the successful box-office sequels following that, he had enough money to buy out pretty much everyone's silence in Blackwood County. Or enact divine retribution to those that would oppose him. Think about it: Mr. Washington bought a _mountain_ , and developed a winter ski lodge on top of it. This would give anyone pause at the type of buying power Josh's dad wielded.

Indeed, Mr. Washington was the incarnation of the devil himself. He could make Hades look like a cheap imitation Harajuku doll.

"Yeah, I get _that_ part," Chris chimed, "I sold my soul too, but I didn't get this much-"

Michael interjected and continued his explanation: "Investments and stocks. I played smart, got lucky too, multiplied my finances and here I am. It's my way of saying 'Fuck You' to Mr. Washington."

Chris probed further, asking, "With all your money, couldn't you just…?"

He kicked himself as he asked that. Of course Mike couldn't just buy his own 8th circle of hell lawyers too because of the events that transpired in that damn safe room. Emily, Mike, the gun. And Chris, the witness, and in a sense, the instigator. And the confession from the police investigation that pointed to first-degree murder. The situation wasn't even a zero-sum law game. This was a battle both he and Mike already lost, with Mr. Washington as the ultimate winner that stood on the bodies of their departed friends.

"No," Mike replied, shaking his head.

"But…"

Mike pointed a finger at his friend and hissed through his teeth. "No! End of discussion."

The air was tense as the darkness of the past emerged from the abyss. This was the first time since their meeting today that they even scratched the surface of their cursed history. And the result was already mired with such intensity, that Michael's countenance began to break. And honestly, that alarmed Chris for a moment.

"Sorry," apologized Mike, ashamed at his sudden outburst. "It's just…"

Chris's body moved on its own accord, as he reached over to his friend and gave his shoulder a squeeze. It was the first, real human contact that Mike had received from anybody in a long time. It felt foreign, alien, but also pleasant and warm, like a healing panacea to soothe his aching scars. Michael closed his eyes and let out a weary sigh as the darkness in his thoughts subdued to a lull. He made a mental note to himself just how good it felt to have Chris around, and even more so with his hand on his shoulder.

"It's cool bud, I get it," replied Chris, patting his friend and searched for a way to alleviate the situation. He let go of his Mike' shoulder and reached into his pocket for his cellphone. "Tell you what, you trade me that sandwich and you can check out the pics I snapped from my road trip."

Mike felt more at ease with the subject change. He'd be willing to listen to anything right now that didn't involve Blackwood Pines.

"Is that what you were doing the past year?" inquired Michael as he handed the plate of food to his friend.

Christopher nodded, unlocking his iPhone 7 and giving it to Mike.

"Yeah, it was my way of saying…" – 'Fuck You' to Mr. Washington was what Chris wanted to finish his sentence with. But he didn't want to risk opening Pandora's Box and illicit the same reaction he received from Mike earlier.

So he went the incircuitous conversation route: "I ah…bought a sweet RV, went cross country pretty much. You can check out my stuff in the album. Just open the Photos app."

Mike took notice of the Doctor Who wallpaper on Chris' phone, along with the rows and rows of applications that were installed. He knew Christopher to be the tech savvy one in the group, so it didn't come to a surprise at just how much junk was installed to begin with. It took Mike several swipes across the screen to finally identify the program he was looking for, hidden in a sea of other apps he didn't recognize. Although there was one in particular that stood out from the rest with its bright orange coloration.

 _'What's Grindr?'_ thought Mike to himself, dismissing it as another one of Chris' junk apps before tapping on the Photos icon.

A grid of pictures came up, columns of splendiferous images you would think were done in Photoshop. But they seemed legitimate, since a lot of the pictures were of Chris taking selfies at different locales both breathtaking and exotic. Like of one picture with towering rock structures layered in dazzling auburn sediments. This photo must have been taken a while ago, because Chris was fairly clean-shaven here.

"Grand Canyon I take it?" asked Mike as he showed the photo to his friend.

"Totes for real dude," answered Chris with a nod, beaming with pride, "and I got more photos just like it that will blow your mind for days."

He pantomimed his own head exploding, accompanied with a comical sound effect explosion. Michael grinned at his friend, then swiped to the next photograph in the sequence. Here, Chris had taken a selfie on top of an observation deck with a body of water behind him as blue as the cerulean skies above it. This picture must have been taken a bit of time after the Grand Canyon one, since Chris here had quite a five-o'clock shadow growing.

"Nice," remarked Mike, as he displayed the photo to Chris. "Where's this at?"

"That…" started Christopher as he adjusted his glasses for a better look, "…my friend is Pilot Butte in Oregon. That lake is on top of a dormant volcano. Pretty wild, yeah?"

Michael nodded, awestruck. "Yeah, pretty wild indeed…"

Mike swiped the phone and the next photograph was of Chris in a full on beard like what he had today. He had the biggest shit eating grin on his face while delivering the thumbs up, as he stood in front of what looked like a massive, blazing effigy.

"Oh, Burning Man dude. That place is wild!" remarked Chris, as he regaled a favorite moment from that trip. "Did you know they have _Max Max: Beyond the Thunderdome_ -style tournaments where you swing around giant foam bats at each other?"

"You don't say…" Mike's head began to spin as he registered this sudden influx of new information…of this new 'Chris' that he didn't even know.

"Yeah bro! You see-"

Michael had a difficult time focusing to the point that Chris' words spilled out into an inaudible drone. He observed his friend, like _really_ looked at him for the first time since his arrival. Was this actually Chris, the same one he knew for so many years? The shy, timid nerd who was all about technology, Doctor Who, and iPhone apps? Sure, some personality quirks prevailed – the humor, the amicability, the gentle nature, the signature faux-hawk. But this new Chris, with the hipster beard, the sun-touched tan, his stocky build, and the goddamn lumberjack _plaid_...

That is to say, one year prior, Chris was such a _boy_ , with his clean-cut good looks and his somewhat pudgy body that was nowhere near as maintained and muscled as Mike. But there Chris stood in front of him, a _man_ that looked capable and full of experience. Didn't the tragic events of Blackwood Pines anchor and pull him into the depths of hell, just like it did Mike? Did those events evolve Chris into something better instead…?

One thing was certain: Chris took a different approach than Mike had this past year. Instead of chasing after money and material comfort, Christopher chose the life of a peripatetic soul.

Thoughts and thoughts, churning and churning. Cannibalizing and cannibalizing.

Mike was in danger of falling back into that dark space of his head again. Where his mind wandered without direction and got lost in limbo. He needed another drink, if only to subdue his oblivion with another form of oblivion.

He went over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of tequila with a shot glass nestled at the top of the cap. Mike poured himself a quick serving and downed the strong, bitter beverage in one swift motion. He let out an exasperated breath as the liquid tingled his insides.

Chris was still talking about Burning Man. Blah, blah, blah…something, something about Mutant Vehicles? What? That made no sense! No more sensible than a lumberjack hipster attending a week-long desert rave in the middle of nowhere. No more sensible than Chris leaving Mike behind to agonize in his own survivor's guilt and failure.

Mike began swiping furiously at the phone and scanned the stream of Chris' selfies – in a redwood forest, at a suspension bridge, on a beach with a mojito, at some place, somewhere. Reminding Michael how much Christopher had moved on with his life. He moved on. _He moved on and left you behind Mike, can't you just accept that?_

 _Actually, he didn't leave you, more like he abandoned you._

 _Because you don't deserve to be free like Chris._

 _You deserve to be punished._

 _Shadows, desolation, isolation, hopeless, joyless!_

 _Suffer in your miserable dream!_

" **SHUT-UP**!" shrieked Mike as he threw the shot glass on the wall next to Chris.

It was a sudden, ear splitting noise of exploding glass. The shards clattering onto the floor in a multitude of dissonant noises.

Chris was dumbstruck. His mouth was agape. His lips moved to form words but nothing came out.

Mike stood beside himself. Tears welling up in his eyes. He wanted to speak but couldn't.

Before Chris could reach out to stop him, Mike had stormed off and locked himself in his bedroom.

* * *

 **Author's Note: DRAMA BOMB! Anywho, thanks for reading! As always, all comments, reviews and critiques are always welcome. It keeps me motivated to write often. :)  
**


	5. Peripatos

**Disclaimer: Body of work will contain strong language and (eventually) sexually graphic adult themes between characters (hint: MikexChris ship, choo-choo!) so reader discretion is advised. In addition, all characters and events from the video game Until Dawn, which are mentioned and/or represented in this work are property of Supermassive Games and Sony Entertainment, and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Further more, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, please don't sue me.**

* * *

Chapter 4

What. The fuck. Was that?

This was the repeating mantra that echoed through Chris' thoughts. It took him about a minute to reorient himself to the present moment – the aftermath of Mike having thrown a shot glass at his general direction.

For real though, what the mother fucking hell was that?

He tried to recall exactly what happened: he gave Mike his phone, he was talking about his travels around the country, and the last thing he discussed was his experiences at Burning Man - before Mike went full mental jacket.

Was it something he said? Something he did? That pained expression in Mike's eyes though, ones that reflected fault. Fault for what? And whose fault? Mike or Chris?

"Mike!" he called out. Or was he answering his own question?

Chris walked over the shards of broken glass with caution, crossed the living room and reached Mike's bedroom. He rapped lightly on the door but did not hear anything of note. He wondered if his friend was all right, all impassioned outbursts aside of course.

"I-I'm fine…" replied Mike, all though not entirely convincing. "Just need a minute…"

Chris' immediate response was to press on, insisting. But wasn't one of his original concerns was how amplified the pain of their shared history would be just by seeing each other? So instead, he opted for the more conservative, diplomatic approach on the matter.

"Sure man…I'll be here if you need anything," assured Chris, laying his palm against the door.

The gesture itself was fairly trivial, the action as inconsequential as their impersonal text messages to one another over the past few months. But this time was different, there was sincere intention behind Chris' actions. And even though he couldn't see Mike, he felt that his friend's back was pressed against the door, preventing him from entering. And perhaps, with Chris pressing his hand right on the door, it would be akin to him placing a consoling, affirming hand on Mike's shoulder. Just like he did earlier in the kitchen before things became turbulent.

Christopher whispered, repeating the same words he said earlier: "I get it buddy…"

He thought he heard a faint sigh from Mike, but maybe it's just what he wanted to hear at that moment. Perhaps as a sign of clemency for not _being_ there for Michael sooner. For, essentially, being a really shitty, absent friend this past year.

Man, this reunion was nowhere close to being like halcyon days. This was more analogous to a complicated, fucked up waltz – if the partners were blindfolded in the darkness, accompanied by a discordant symphony of strings and cowbells. No matter how hard Chris tried to reach out to Mike, with sincere words here, or an amicable touch there, the past would encroach from the abyss with snarls and jagged claws, dragging them deeper into their personal darkness. A shared history, a shared pain.

Now Chris used the door as a means to keep himself steady. He put his other hand over his chest and let out a breath. His head felt light, dizzy and muddled. His stomach was doing somersaults, pole vaults and triple pirouettes. He swallowed a good measure of air to keep himself steady, but he knew his body was protesting for a reason – too much alcohol.

Christopher scrambled, searching for anything in this god forsaken contemporary furniture hell of cubes and squares for a receptacle. And when he identified a hollow bin next to the sectional sofa, he kneeled close, hanging over the opening and vomited, purging both the scotch and the Tom Collins from his stomach. Somehow the regal Scottish influence of 30 years just didn't jive with the pedestrian nature of 'the drink of millionaires'. Exacerbated, of course, by the vacillating range of emotions experienced with Mike just moments ago.

There was an iota of a moment after the initial ejection of fluids, enough for him to evoke the name of the Lord before the next wave of nausea jostled his insides. Chris purged more toxins out of his system, like his body was saying: ' _Yeah, you kinda fucked up. You drank too much booze and now I gotta cleanse you. You're welcome.'_

"Hurk!" he cried, this time it was a dry heave, the type that punches you right in the gut.

After that, Chris gripped the edges of the square receptacle, bracing against it so he wouldn't keel over from physical exhaustion. His eyes were tearing up, his nose was oozing mucous and his beard was partially soaked with bile. He was definitely ill right now, and his body made sure to communicate that message in whatever facial orifice it could use: that this is the price you pay for overindulging in alcohol. Or rather, that you're a lightweight.

Christopher could sense another episode of nausea rising from within.

But before the feeling could reach a tempestuous crescendo, he felt a pair of hands grip and massage his shoulders in small circles. He turned his head and saw Mike kneeling beside him. The touch, and the close proximity, was really inviting and calming. And there was no longer that manic expression of chaotic sadness Chris witnessed a moment ago when Michael hurled the shot glass. Instead, Christopher saw a friend that was genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and wanted nothing more than to help.

Chris wondered in a self-effacing way: _God, why weren't the roles reversed? Why couldn't I have been there for Mike instead, like he's doing for me now?  
_  
Oh Chris. Chris, Chris, Chris...if you only _knew_.

That this... _this_ was the interplay the two experienced with each other - a pair of juxtaposed stars orbiting between one another through the darkness and the light. There was never a moment in their meeting when things were at an equilibrium. It was either Mike comforting Chris, or Chris comforting Mike. Or rather: Mike being a dick to Chris, or Chris being a dick to Mike. Round and round they went, spinning across their punishing gravities and nurturing atmospheres.

But which was it really? The friend or the asshole? Either? Neither? Both? What did it matter? They were opposite polarities sharing the same axis of a troubled past, of a present ever resolving, and of an uncharted future.

With tears and snot dribbling down his face, Chris softly cried, "Help..."

Mike knew what to do as his movements were automatic and instinctual. He approached the kitchen, making sure to step gingerly around the scattered broken glass. And driven by learning experiences from the past, those times he partied so hard that he became the quintessential definition of a party animal, he drew a bottle of bright red Gatorade from the fridge and a kitchen towel from the countertop. He approached Chris, kneeled next to him and handed him the refreshment. Then he wiped Chris' face dry, ensuring he didn't miss the glorious golden beard of course, like a zookeeper would when caretaking for an invalid lion and his mane.

Christopher didn't protest Mike's altruistic advances. In actuality, it felt good to be looked after for a change. If he were truly a lion, this would be the part where he'd be purring with satisfaction.

"Now..." Mike began to instruct, "...you'll need to take sips of the Gatorade. Hydration and restoring lost electrolytes are key. And no chugging, this isn't 30-year-old scotch we're talking about."

"Is it just as expensive though?" Chris quipped in a weak tone.

Even when physically ill and debilitated, Chris always managed to crack a joke.

Mike smirked, patting his friend on the back and said, "You never miss a beat do you?"

Chris shook his head, then took the tiniest of sips. The drink was refreshing no doubt, but his stomach made small protests to his body. Mike noticed the grimace on his friend's face, and so reached over to rub his back with small circles. This aided in abating the rising tremor in Chris' stomach.

"This is good..." Chris breathed out, closing his eyes as a flowing calmness radiated from the spot that Mike caressed.

Michael nodded, then switched to massaging his friend's shoulders. He asked in a low tone, "How does this feel?"

These motions were different from before: more supple, more precise, quite proficient actually, enough to practically soothe Chris' aching body. His stomach felt like it was miles away, as his brain began registering a completely new and utterly etherizing sensation of pressed muscles that hadn't been kneaded for over a year now.

Christopher protested with a lie, "A-ah…could be better…"

His friend chortled, "Is that so?"

Michael had his share of giving massages in years past. After all, he was quite the Casanova with plenty of notches under his belt. He knew his way around a woman's body, sure, but he figured it wasn't any different from a man's. And yeah, the physical geography was different, but the topography was very much the same. If the topography was a chubby-turned-butch sort of body type, with broad shoulders and firm muscles. Even so, all it took was a slight alteration in Mike's movements and pressure to illicit a satisfied groan from his friend.

"Fine…" Chris replied, defeated. He leaned into the massage to further his comfort and said, "You win, you win…"

Mike chuckled, replying, "Considering you messed up my ottoman storage bench, I'll take the victory as a consolation for the property damage."

"What?" his friend queried, looking at the receptacle, and realizing it was far from any sort of trash bin. "Oh goddamn…was that shit expensive?"

"Let's just say it's more than the bottle of scotch I have," replied Mike as he released his grip from Chris and took a leather cushion that was laying on the floor nearby, then slid it over the ottoman to seal its opening.

Christopher felt remorse, saying, "Sad face…sorry bro…"

His friend shrugged, replying, "No big deal, I can easily buy another one. And besides, I should be the one apologizing for the shot glass thing."

Chris turned to face Mike. They both sat Indian-style from one another, and for a moment, there was a stretch of silence. It was Chris who broke the stillness by patting his friend on his knee.

"Hey, don't sweat the petty stuff and don't pet the sweaty stuff. Am I right?" cajoled Chris with a smirk. It was a superficial response, but this was the moment for him to be the friend that Michael needed, even if Christopher had his own reservations on the matter.

Mike chuckled, alleviating the feeling of shame he felt for his actions earlier at the kitchen, and making Chris feel a bit at ease. Then he rubbed the back of his neck anxiously and said, "Yeah, but still…"

Christopher leaned in, inquiring, "Talk to me bro. What's going on in that head of yours?"

He reached over and tapped Mike on the forehead. But his finger was swatted away in playful response. However, Chris persisted by continually poking Michael's head at every opportune moment, until it became a Mortal Kombat of forehead taps and hand swats. It escalated to the point where Chris was imitating Bruce Lee sound effects with every jab and strike, while Mike laughed as he defended himself from his friend's advances.

"All right, all right, all right!" Mike exclaimed, pleading in between bouts of laughter, "I give up, totes for real dude!"

The jovial air between the friends simmered to an amicable calm. Michael looked out the window and realized that evening had set in, with the moon and stars alight. Had time passed so quickly already? It felt like moments ago that the daylight was ever present. And he only invited Chris over to hang out and wasn't expecting him to stay over.

"Listen… I want to tell you what's on my mind, but can we start over?" implored Mike, looking away from his friend. "Like, maybe erase the shit that happened the past few minutes? Wipe the slate clean?"

In response, Chris began mimicking robotic sound effects as his arm stirred with mechanical maneuvers. He brought his forearm up to his own face, and pantomimed movements as if to open a computerized compartment hidden within his sleeves. Chris moved his fingers in rapid succession, eliciting beeping noises that sounded all too absurd.

"Request initializing: deleting log files and random access memories since last login," he began in a binary tone, stiffening his back and creating the sound effects of spinning gyros and popping gizmos.

Mike rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Oh God, Chris, stop."

Chris titled his head sharply, gave several deadpan blinks, and then replied, "Unable to abort process. Additional request initializing: now deleting all references to identity handle Christopher Benjamin."

Oh Chris, ever the comedian.

"C'mon Chris, I'm serious." But Mike's chuckles betrayed the solemn expression he tried to maintain. "Don't be like that."

However, Christopher continued his mechanical theatrics. "Like what Michael? And I do not know this 'Chris' that you speak of. Also, please be advised that the deletion process is at 56%"

Michael scoffed, feeling just the tiniest bit irritated. He replied, "Like _that_ – the way you're _being_."

Always funny, making things lighthearted, even when it was unwarranted for the situation.

It was almost like a defensive mechanism for Chris, perhaps to avoid getting too close to the hurt and pain. But sometimes, you _just_ had to talk through the wounds, give them form through words, and maybe, just maybe, find a way to heal and move on.

"You always get like this," Mike continued, crossing his arms. "Especially when things are serious."

If this was a hint bomb as any, this would be the explosive impact of ten simultaneous nuclear detonations. Chris relaxed his posture and cleared his throat. He adjusted his glasses nervously.

"Sorry man," Christopher replied, putting his hands to his own knees. "You got my attention."

"Good." Mike nodded, also putting his hands on his own knees, as if the gesture was creating a more official tone to the conversation. "Now, I know it's getting late, so I want you to spend the night."

Before Chris could protest, Mike stopped him with a finger in the air.

"No, you're staying the night, because…"

He needed Chris, his company, the companionship. He was the only one that could relate to him in this fucked up world after Blackwood Pines. He hadn't smiled or laughed, or felt alive in so long. Every day he ran away from the dawn, wishing death would spare him another year. And now, with Chris, it felt like things were possible again. To hope, to wish, to dream, to become. All these thoughts spilled into his head like a deluge. And behind it, was the darkness, the unfathomable, impermeable substance that needed release.

Mike tightened the grip on his knees to force his body into a physically uncomfortable state so he could stop his train of thoughts before it made a head on collision into chaos again. Just like the incident with the shot glass, and times before that before Chris came along: alone, suffering, crying for help. This just had to stop.

"Because…" Michael continued, trying to summarize his thoughts into something meaningful, but the words stopped in his throat.

Chris could see the distress welling up in his friend's brown eyes. And just like that time when Chris stood in front of Mike's bedroom door, at the kitchen before the shot glass incident, in the entryway outside the condo, and even unspoken times before Blackwood Pines - he reached over and put an affirming hand to his friend's shoulder. It was that again, that familiarity that begets intimacy. This was a feeling that they would soon understand that traversed beyond the bond of friendship, of identity, of history, of sexuality, of man and woman.

The fundamental expression of love.

He squeezed Mike's shoulder and said, "I get it bro…I missed you too."

If the two were to look out the window right now, they would see the cosmic stars, Venus and Mars, shining brightly through the dark, din of the evening sky. Being both the witnesses and the judges of the choices between the two men before them.

* * *

 **Author's Note: So it took me a really long time to think of a "ship" name for Chris & Mike, and I think "Chrism" works rather well, with a bonus that it's an actual word too! Doesn't have the pzazz like the ship name "Crashley" (Chris & Ashley) but you have no idea how hard it is to brainstorm ship names when you're working with word combinations containing mostly hard consonants with very few vowels.**

 **ANYWAY, reviews, comments and critiques always welcome! And if you're too shy to send a word out, favorite and/or following will help motivate me to continue writing all the same. :)**

 **Thanks for reading!**


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